Npf    Making. 

See  pai^e  11 


JOHN  tregenoweth: 

HIS    MARK. 


BY 

MARK    GUY    PEARSE, 

AUTHOR  OF    "MISTER   HORN   AND    HIS    FRIENDS." 


SECOND  EDITION,  REVISED. 


THREE      ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW  YORK: 
NELSON     &     PHILLIPS, 

CINCINNATI  : 
HITCHCOCK     &     WALDEN. 

1877. 


CONTENTS. 


Chaptkb                                                                                                           Paoi 
I.  Old  Uncle  John 7 

II.  The  Little  Maid 14 

III.  His  Wife  Betty 22 

IV.  The  Drunken  Fiddler 29 

V.  How  He  Made  His  Mark 39 

VI.  The  Quaker's  Coat 49 

VII.  What  Came  of  a  Dream 63 

VIII.  The  Donkey  and  Cart 73 

IX.  The  New  Parson 85 


Illustrations. 


Net  Making 2 

Feeling  the  Mark 45 

Leaving  the  Beach 75 


JOHN  TREGENOWETH :  HIS  MARK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OLD    UNCLE  JOHN. 

^^HIS  day — August  14,  1871 

— Old  Uncle  John  Tregeno- 

wetJis  little  Mary  was  mar- 

f^  ried  to  Zacchy  Pendray,  in 

the  Parish  Church  at  Saint 

Osyth's. 

So  stands  the  sentence  in 

T  'W         "^  "^y  diary.    But  without  some 

<"   further  explanation,   it  will  lead   to 

-H  no   less  than  three  mistakes.       For 

to  begin  with — in  spite  of  his  name 

— "old   Uncle  John"  was   not  very 


8         John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

old  ;  nor  had  he  moreover  a  single  nephew 
or  niece  in  the  world.  The  perfectly  white 
hair  that  fell  in  rich  silvery  locks  to  his  shoul- 
ders, gave  him  the  first  part  of  his  title;  while 
custom  in  that  Western  Cornwall  gave  to 
him  the  second  part.  "Uncle"  is  the  famil- 
iar title  by  which  old  men  of  the  working- 
classes  are  frequently  known. 

And  then  as  to  this  "  little  Mary,"  she  was 
by  no  means  little.  She  was  a  tall,  comely 
Cornish  maiden  of  about  twenty-three  years' 
old ;  with  hair  of  glossy  blackness,  and  deep 
blue  eyes — deep  blue  as  the  sea  that  lay  un- 
der the  mighty  cliffs  a  mile  from  her  father's 
door.  Her  face  was  one  that  might  have 
been  called  beautiful,  perhaps,  only  that  there 
was  such  frankness  and  such  simplicity — such 
tender,  anxious  love,  that  you  looked  right  in 
at  the  soul  without  staying  to  think  what  the 
face  was  like. 


Old  Uncle  John,  9 

Then,  again,  though  they  were  married  at 
church.  Uncle  John  was  no  Churchman,  but 
a  thorough  Primitive  Methodist,  and  a  "  class- 
leader"  too.  But  for  all  that,  he  played  the 
organ  up  in  the  little  loft  at  St.  Osyth's,  that 
they  called  the  gallery,  sitting  there  Sunday 
mornings  and  afternoons,  up  in  the  dark  (it 
is  never  too  dark  for  him),  behind  the  great 
royal  arms,  that  have  been  there  since  the 
days  of  good  Queen  Anne ;  playing  "  for 
love,"  poor  as  he  was  ;  for  love  of  the  organ, 
perhaps,  first  of  all,  but  for  love  of  the  par- 
son, too,  for  he  has  been  a  rare  friend  to 
Uncle  John,  as  little  Mary  will  tell  us  before 
we  have  done.  Then  on  Sunday  nights  he 
takes  his  place  in  the  singing  seat  at  the 
Primitive  Methodist  Chapel,  and  amid  flute 
and  fiddle,  big  and  little,  and  trombone  and 
clarionet,  and  a  great  company  of  singers, 
he   leads  the   choir  there  —  and    a   heartier 


lo       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

or  better  bit  of  singing  it  would  be  a  hard 
matter  to  find  than  that  which  rinsfs  within 
those  four  white-washed  walls.  They  be- 
lieved, with  David,  that  it  was  good  to  make 
a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord. 

And  that  was  in  1871  : — so  lately,  and  yet 
so  long  ago !  Ah,  things  are  altered  now 
down  at  St.  Osyth  s.  "  The  new  parson " 
came,  with  whom  the  little  white-washed 
chapel  was  schism,  and  Uncle  John  was  a 
heretic,  and  even  the  fish  for  Friday's  fast 
was  tainted  because  it  was  taken  on  a  schis- 
matic's hook  !  And  the  simple  villagers  who 
sung  in  the  parish  church  in  the  morning,  and 
crowded  the  little  chapel  at  night,  and  who 
worshiped  the  same  good  Lord  in  each,  are 
now  rent  and  torn  with  jealousies  and  bick- 
erings about  "  strict  Church  "  and  "  Dissent." 
Reader,  if  you  have  a  heart  in  you  at  all, 
pray   God   to   send   again   the   Spirit  of  the 


Old  Uncle  John.  ii 

Master,  when  every  good  man  shall  give 
thanks  for  the  telling  of  Salvation's  story,  be 
it  in  the  white-washed  barn  or  in  the  many- 
arched  cathedral,  in  Primitive  Chapel  or  Par- 
ish Church. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  this  marriage-day 
that  the  old  man  and  I  sat  together  listening 
to  the  music  of  the  bells  coming  softly  and 
sweetly  across  the  water.  He  found  it  rather 
a  relief  to  have  some  one  to  chat  with,  and  I 
had  long  been  anxious  to  get  the  story  that 
he  was  disposed  to  tell.  Already  I  had  picked 
up  bits  of  it  from  one  and  another,  and  patched 
them  together  as  well  as  I  could  ;  and  one  or 
two  incidents  I  had  heard  from  himself,  but 
only  just  enough  to  make  me  eager  to  hear 
the  rest.  Several  times  I  had  tried  to  get  at 
it,  but  only  failed  provokingly. 

I  had  often  come  upon  him  sitting  in  the 
door-way,   his   fingers  busied   in   net-making, 


12       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

the  finished  meshes  lying  coiled  beside  him, 
his  face  turned  upward  to  the  light,  the  long 
silver  hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  while 
he  and  "little  Mary"  sang  some  sweet  hymn 
together — a  picture  framed  by  the  jessamine- 
porch  about  the  door-way.  And  sitting  with 
them,  I  had  tried  to  lead  up  to  the  story  of 
his  life ;  but  Betty  was  sure  to  come  bustling 
by  us  starting  some  new  topic,  or  Zacchy 
would  come  creeping  in  at  the  little  gate  with 
the  talk  of  the  latest  news.  Somehow  or 
other,  it  had  always  failed. 

At  other  times  as  I  passed  the  old  church 
I  had  stayed  and  listened,  marveling  at  the 
rare  power  and  skill  with  which  he  could 
sway  the  tones,  and  force  them  into  exquisite 
harmony,  then  had  felt  my  way  up  the  old 
rickety  stair-case  and  stood  beside  him  at 
the  organ.  But  at  such  times  he  had  no  ear, 
no  thought,  for  any  thing  but  the  music. 


Old  Uncle  John.  13 

This  evening  the  coast  was  clear.  Betty 
had  gone  to  see  "  the  little  maid  "  settled  at 
her  new  home.  Uncle  John  had  thought  of 
going  too,  but  Betty  had  settled  that  by  de- 
cidedly, but  not  unkindly,  expressing  an  opin- 
ion that  "  men-folks  were  always  best  out  o' 
the  way  ; "  to  which,  as  a  general  principle  on 
a  wedding-day,  Zacchy  might  perhaps  have 
ventured  to  take  exception  had  any  one  but 
Betty  said  it.  So  early  on  that  summer's 
evening  we  sat  together,  without  any  fear  of 
disturbance.  The  sea-breeze  swept  about  us 
deliciously  cool  and  balmy,  and  laden  with 
the  fragrance  of  abundant  flowers;  while  over 
all  fell  the  sweet  music  of  the  bells,  like  a  con- 
stant blessing  on  that  happy  day. 

Uncle  John's  thoughts  were  rather  disposed 
to  wander  into  the  past,  and  by  putting  a 
question  here  and  there  I  managed  to  get  the 
story  complete. 


14      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    LITTLE    MAID. 

^OW  long  have  I  been  blind,  sir? 
— (the  old  man  began,  in  an- 
swer to  my  question) — Well, 
sir,  I've  been  so  blind  as  a  bat 
this  nineteen  year  a'most.  But  'tis 
wonderful  how  I  be  able  to  get 
along !  It  do  seem  to  me  as  if 
when  one  thing  be  took  away  something  else 
be  sure  to  come  in  its  place.  Eyes  are 
things  that  you  would  think  it  wisht^  sure 
'nough  to  be  without,  but  it  do  come  to  be 

*  Wisht :  A  Cornish  word  for  bad,  unhappy,  unfortunate. 
It  is  supposed  to  linger  from  the  old  belief  in  witchcraft,  and 
their  power  of  evil-wishing. 


The  Little  Maid.  15 

natural-like,  and  six  days  out  o'  the  seven 
you  forget  that  ever  you  had  any,  'specially 
if  you've  got  plenty  else  to  think  about,  as 
I  always  had.  Then,  besides,  there's  your 
ears  and  your  finger-tips  do  come  to  be  un- 
common good  friends.  I've  heard  folks  say 
that  you  don't  know  the  worth  of  your  mer- 
cies till  they  are  gone.  That  is  true  enough, 
but  so  is  this  —  that  then  you  find  out  the 
worth  d  them  that  be  left. 

'Tis  no  good  denying  that  it  be  a  trifle 
hard  sometimes,  when  there's  nothing  'pon 
my  mind.  One  thing  in  particular  has  been 
making  me  wish  all  day  that  I  could  look  out 
once  more  just  for  five  minutes.  A  foolish 
thing,  I  dare  say  you'll  think,  for  an  old  chap 
like  me ;  but  there — we  all  of  us  have  got  a 
well  o'  tears  in  us  somewhere,  if  you  only 
sink  down  deep  enough.  The  sound  o'  those 
blessed  bells  a-ringin'  in  my  ears,  and  Betty 


i6       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

and  all  of  them  saying  how  pretty  she  looked 
— it  a'most  makes  me  feel  a  bone  o'  the  old 
man  in  me  a  bit  rebellin'.  And  to  think  she 
be  gone — though  'tis  but  a  matter  of  four 
mile  off,  and  Zacchy  is  a  brave  lad,  and  a 
pretty  singer  too.  My  little  maid  Mary — ah, 
there  I  go  again !  Little  maid!  Why  I 
could  feel  her  shadow  fall  over  me  when  she'd 
be  standin'  by  my  side  three  years  ago ne,  and 
I  know  she's  so  fine  a  girl  as  there  be  in  the 
West  Country ;  but  I  can  never  come  to 
think  of  her  as  any  other  than  she  was  the 
last  time  I  saw  her. 

"  How  old  was  she  then.?"  I  asked,  as  the 
old  man  paused  in  his  story. 

She  was  five  years,  sir — five  that  very  night. 
Every  thing  else  is  half  like  a  dream  com- 
pared with  the  way  I  can  remember  that. 

The  old  man  stopped,  as  if  unwilling  to 
relate  it. 


The  Little  Maid.  17 

"  I  have  never  heard  exactly  how  it  hap- 
pened," I  said,  by  way  of  encouragement. 

"  Haven't  you  ? "  he  asked  with  surprise. 
"  Why,  I  thought  every  body  knew  all  about, 
it."     Then  he  settled  down  for  the  story. 

I  was  working  up  to  mine  by  night  that 
week,  and  had  to  start  just  after  supper.  The 
little  maid  had  been  sitting  on  my  knee.  It 
was  in  the  winter  time,  and  I  can  mind  how 
her  great  frightened  eyes  looked  up  at  me 
as  she  heard  the  rain  pattering  against  the 
window,  and  the  wind  roaring  round  the 
house,  and  how  she  put  her  arms  about  my 
neck,  and  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  lispin',  for  she 
couldn't  speak  plain  then,  "  Father,"  she  said, 
"  father,  take  me  with  you,  'tis  so  dark.  You 
know  Jesus  loves  little  children,  and  if  I  go  he 
must  take  care  of  you  too,  father." 

"  Bless  you,"  I  said,  "  I've  got  one  little 
angel  to  love  me,  anyhow." 


i8      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

Then  I  got  up  to  go,  and  as  I  opened  the 
door  she  stood  there  with  the  wind  a-blowing 
her  hair  about,  and  just  as  I  stooped  to  kiss 
her  the  candle  was  puffed  out.  I  felt  her 
little  arms  about  me,  and  her  lips  on  my 
cheek,  and — and — (for  a  moment  the  voice 
faltered  ;  but  quickly  recovering  itself  the  old 
man  went  on  bravely) — there,  what  an  old 
stupid  I  be,  to  be  sure,  and  those  blessed  bells 
a-ringin'  out  their  music  as  if  we  had  good 
cause  to  let  everybody  hear  such  pure  happi- 
ness as  their  wedding  will  make — the  little 
maid  and  Zacchy. 

"So  it  happened  that  night?"  I  hinted 
gently,  after  another  pause. 

It  happened  that  night,  sir,  that  very  night. 
I  felt  somehow  as  if  something  was  going  to 
be  wrong.  I  had  a  lot  of  wisht  old  thoughts 
come  creepin'  over  me  all  day ;  but  I  didn't 
think  'twas  going  to  be  that.     Me  and   my 


The  Little  Maid.  19 

comrade  were  down  in  the  mine  to  our  work  ; 
we  were  blasting.  We  had  bored  the  hole 
and  put  in  the  charge.  Then  we  lit  the  fuse 
and  went  away  for  the  hole  to  go  off.  We 
waited  two  or  three  minutes,  and  then  my 
comrade  said  that  the  fuse  must  have  gone 
out. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  I  said,  "  you  can't  give  it  too 
much  time — wait  a  bit." 

We  waited  until  both  of  us  thought  it  must 
have  failed,  and  then  I  crept  up  cautiously 
toward  the  hole.  All  of  a  sudden  there  came 
an  awful  blaze  of  light,  and  a  hundred  thun- 
der-peals, and  I  can't  recollect  any  thing  more 
about  it. 

They  tell  me  that  it  was  four  or  five  days 
before  I  began  to  come  to  myself  The  first 
thing  that  I  can  remember  is  one  day  feeling 
a  pair  of  little  arms  about  my  neck,  and  hot 
tears  falling  on  my  face.  I  couldn't  make  it 
2 


20      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

out.  At  first  I  thought  that  I  was  standing 
in  the  door-way,  just  going  to  mine,  and  I  said, 
"  Good  night,  Httle  maid."  Then  I  felt  the 
tears  fall  faster,  and  as  my  senses  began  to 
come  together  I  knew  that  I  was  in  bed,  and 
that  there  was  something  amiss,  but  I  couldn't 
make  out  what  it  was,  so  I  said,  "  Light  a 
candle,  Mary,  dear,  'tis  so  dark." 

Bless  you,  sir,  I  can  feel  it  now — how  her 
little  hand  stroked  the  side  of  my  face,  as  the 
tears  fell  hotter  and  faster.  "  What  is  it,  Mary, 
dear  7  "  I  said,  thinking  there  was  something 
happened  to  her.  "  Where  is  mother.?  and 
why  doesn't  she  bring  a  light.?  'tis  so  dark." 

Then  I  heard  the  little  maid  whisper  to  her- 
self, "  Poor,  poor  father  /  I  .s pose  I  shall  al- 
ways have  to  lead  hii7i  now" 

Then  it  all  came  across  me — I  was  blind  / 
The  little  maid  guessed  somehow  that  I  knew 
it.     She  began  stroking  my  hand,  and  kept 


The  Little  Maid. 


21 


saying,  "  Poor,  poor  father  ! "  and  I  could  feel 

the  tears   fallingr  on    it  all  the  time.     Then 

presently  she  says,  "  You'll  have  to  take  me 

with  you  now,  father,  wherever  you  go  ;  and  so 

Jesus  must  take  care  of  you  always  now,  you 

know." 

***** 

I  can  scarcely  fancy  she's  gone,  bless  her. 
The  little  maid  has  been  a'most  like  an  angel 
to  me,  sir.  But  there,  I  musn't  be  an  old 
stupid  again. 


22       John  Tregenoweth  :  iiis  Mark. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HIS   WIFE   BETTY. 

^r^^^f^^DID  not  get  well  enough  to  go  about 
X^_^  again  for  a  good  many  weeks. 
g  The  house  had  got  pretty  well 
strlpt  of  all  that  was  in  it,  and 
that  wasn't  much,  a  long  time  before 
I  could  think  about  trying  to  pick  up 
'a  bit  of  a  living.  My  Betty  is  a  real 
good  one,  I  can  tell'e,  sir — a  real  good 
one  and  no  mistake,  or  else  we  should  have 
starved.  Betty  did  come  out  then — you'd 
hardly  believe  all  that  she  went  through  to 
keep  the  place  over  our  head.  Any  thing 
that  came  to  hand,  it  was  all  the  same  to  her, 
from  a  round  o'  monthly  nursing  to  curin'  pil- 


His   Wife  Betty.  23 

chards,  or  standin'  at  a  wash-tub  from  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  night. 

Bless  her,  sir,  she's  a  right  good  one.  She 
be  a  woman  that  wants  a  deal  o'  knowin',  does 
Betty.  Nothing  ever  turns  up,  but  Betty's 
just  as  ready  for  it  as  if  she'd  been  a-doin' 
nothing  else  but  thinkin'  about  it  all  the  days 
of  her  life.  Why,  if  I  was  made  king  o'  En- 
gland to-morrow,  sir,  Betty  would  know  'xact- 
ly  what  I  ought  to  do  an'  say.  She  may  not 
be  what  people  call  an  amiable  tempered 
woman,  and  she  don't  much  like  that  kind  of 
folk  either.  Betty  be  one  o'  that  sort  that 
like  nothing  so  much  as  to  go  straight  on 
with  her  work  till  it's  done,  and  then  to  begin 
something  else.  And  I  often  think,  sir,  that 
the.  hard,  bony  women  that  can't  abide  a  bit 
of  praise — neither,  giving  none  nor  taking 
none,  who  do  call  work  work  and  wages 
wages,  and  count  every  word  besides  them  as 


24      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

waste  of  breath — they're  the  women  to  make 
the  world  go  round.  If  they're  iron  for  any 
feelin'  that's  in  them,  they're  iron  too  for 
the  work  and  the  wear  of  them.  Then  you 
know,  sir,  when  iron  is  hot  'tis  hot,  and  when 
Betty  is  up  she  is  up,  sure  'nough  ;  and  what- 
ever strikes  then  will  make  the  sparks  fly. 

Ah,  I've  vexed  and  worrited  her  many  a 
time  (and  Uncle  John  sighed,)  and  she'd  bear 
it  all  as  patient  as  an  angel.  She  wouldn't 
say  a  word  o'  scoldin'  for  days  an'  days,  (here 
Uncle  John  smiled.)  But  last  of  all,  she'd 
fold  her  arms  an'  give  me  a  bit  of  her  mind — 
and  a  very  strong-minded  woman  you'd  have 
thought  her  too,  sir.  Then  directly  'twas 
over,  she'd  go  on  with  her  work  again  just  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  Not  like  some 
folks,  who  sulk  and  keep  rumblin'  round  an' 
round  for  hours,  like  the  thunderstorms  that 
come  and  otq  with  the  tide. 


His   Wife  Betty.  25 

But  bless  her,  it  be  a  long  time  now  since 
the  last  storm  broke,  and  I  don't  reckon  that 
there'll  be  any  more  of  'em.  I've  often  told 
her,  that  if  she'd  been  one  of  the  smilin', 
smirkin'  sort,  who  are  all  tears  for  your 
troubles  and  sunshine  for  your  joys,  we  should 
have  been  dead  and  buried  long  ago.  I  can 
mind,  years  since,  how  the  still  water  was  full 
of  lovely  reflections — blue  sky,  and  green 
leaves,  and  yellow  flowers,  and  pure  lilies. 
But  'tis  the  water  down  between  the  dark 
walls,  hurled  and  whirled  and  troubled,  as  if 
it  had  no  time  to  show  itself  and  didn't  want 
any  admiration,  that  turns  the  mill  wheels 
and  grinds  corn  for  the  hungry  people. 
There's  folks  that  get  all  their  love  and  praise 
now ;  and  there's  folks  that  will  have  it  by 
and  by,  because  they  can't  stop  for  it  till 
their  work  is  done.  I'm  one  o'  the  sort,  sir, 
that  likes  a  bit  'pen  the  way  ;  it  seems  for  to 


26      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

grease  the  wheels  and  makes  'em  go  a  deal 
more  comfortabler.  But  there,  'tis  only  your 
slow  cart  wheels  that  you  can  grease  while 
they  are  going.  Your  sixteen-mile-an-hour 
must  wait  till  the  journey  is  done.  And 
that's  like  Betty. 

Bless  her,  when  every  body  gets  their  due, 
as  they  will  some  day,  there  wont  be  many 
come  in  for  more  than  Betty  will.  Though 
she'll  be  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  believe 
that  there  is  any  thing  down  to  her  credit, 
that  she  will.  I  often  think,  sir,  that  if  there'll 
be  one  prize  better  than  any  other,  I  reckon 
it'll  be  for  bearing  up  against  heaps  o'  worries 
and  troubles  like  our  Betty  has  gone  through 
— (again  the  old  man  sighed  deeply) — and 
for  going  steadily  along  a  road  choke-full  o* 
dreadful  things,  and  not  seemin'  to  have  any 
way  out.  If  I  could  have  my  way  I'd  say 
that  the  best  man  or  woman  either  was  the 


His  Wife  Betty.  27 

one  that  kept  their  heart  in  the  right  place 
whatever  comes  and  whatever  goes — and 
that's  our  Betty,  sir,  clean  off. 

The  old  man  stayed  a  moment,  while  his 
face  lit  up  as  if  his  mind  were  dwelling  on 
some  pleasant  memory. 

I've  been  thinking  of  it  most  all  day  long : 
and  what  with  the  bustle- and  the  bells,  and 
the  words  of  the  marriage  service,  and  one 
thing  and  another,  it  just  carried  me  back  to 
our  wedding-day  near  five-and-twenty  years 
agone.  You'd  hardly  think  how  pretty  she 
was  when  I  married  her.  She  was  the  beauty 
of  the  parish,  sir,  and  many  a  young  fellow 
was  angered  with  me,  as  they  tell  me  they  be 
with  Zacchy  to-day.  But  there,  it  would  have 
been  a  wisht  poor  job  for  me  if  she  hadn't  had 
something  more  than  good  looks.  'Tis  like 
what  I  was  telling  the  little  maid  once  when 
she  was  little.     "  Father,"  she  says,  as  she  was 


28       John  Tregenoweth:  his  Mark. 

a-leadin'  the  donkey,  and  looking  at  the 
flowers,  "  I  don't  think  that  there's  any  thing 
in  the  world  so  lovely  as  the  May,  is  there?" 
When  I'd  thought  about  it  for  a  minute  or 
two,  I  says,  "  Yes,  little  maid,  I  reckon  there 
is.  When  the  winter  comes  and  all  the  white 
blossoms  be  stript  off,  and  there  isn't  a  leaf 
left,  and  every  thing  is  all  frozen,  I  expect 
the  hungry  birds  think  that  the  red  berries 
that  they  feed  on  are  a  good  deal  lovelier." 
Our  Betty,  sir,  bless  her,  was  like  the  May 
when  I  married,  sir,  but  when  the  winter 
came,  and  it  was  a  long,  long  one,  she  had 
something  more  than  dainty  blossoms  white 
and  pink.  Our  Betty  is  a  real  good  one,  I 
can  tell'e,  sir,  or  we  must  have  starved  then  ! 


The  Drunken  Fiddler, 


29 


CHAPTER  [y. 

THE  DRUNKEN  FIDDLER. 

ELL,  as  I  said,  I  began  to 
cast  about  for  a  living,  and  I 
couldn't  think  of  any  thing 
but  my  fiddle.  You  know, 
sir,  I  dearly  love  music.  I 
always  feel  so  thankful  that 
'tis  my  eyes  that  be  gone 
and  not  my  ears,  for  there's  nothing  so  beau- 
tiful on  earth  as  the  music  even  a  blind  man 
can  listen  to  ; — a  bendin'  over  it,  tucked  up 
under  your  chin,  like  a  thing  you  do  love,  'tis 
wonderful  how  a  fiddle  can  come  to  speak 
to  a  man  ;  if  it  had  a  real  heart  and  soul  it 
couldn't  be  more  feeling.     Sometimes  there 


30       John  Tregenowetii  :  his  Mark. 

comes  a  little  moaninof  note — that's  sorrow ; 
and  sometimes  a  sharp  cry  —  that's  pain. 
Sometimes  'tis  all  of  a  loving  whisper,  sort 
of  sentimental ;  then  'tis  all  harsh  and  angry, 
screamin'  with  rage,  or  threatenin'  terrible 
hurt ;  and  then  it  comes  round  all  tender  and 
appealin',  enough  to  bring  the  tears  on  your 
cheeks.  'Tis  a  thing  that  can  sympathize 
with  a  man  uncommon,  is  a  fiddle. 

Then  there  was  little  Mary;  she  could  sing 
then  a'most  as  pretty  as  she  can  now.  So  on 
Saturday  nights,  when  the  streets  are  full  of 
market  folks,  the  little  maid  used  to  lead  me 
along  and  she  would  sing  as  I  played.  It 
was  only  little  hymns  that  she  knew — hymns 
that  she  had  learned  at  Sunday-school ;  for 
though  we  never  went  anywhere  ourselves, 
she  never  missed,  wet  or  fine.  Though  it 
was  nothing  but  the  same  over  and  over,  they 
loved  to  hear  the  little  maid,  and  sometimes 


The  Drunkeii  Fiddler.  31 

we  should  get  as  much  as  three  or  four  shil- 
lings of  a  night. 

Ah  !  it  was  the  worst  money  that  I  ever 
earned.  You  see,  sir,  my  old  comrades  were 
always  about  at  one  public  house  or  another, 
and  they  would  be  asking  me  in  for  a  glass 
of  something  to  drink,  and  as  I  had  a  little 
money  in  my  pocket,  one  generally  led  to 
more.  There  the  little  maid  would  sit  by  my 
side,  in  the  foul  place,  hearing  their  oaths, 
and  frightened  at  their  drunken  quarreling. 
Often  and  often  she  has  laid  her  head  down 
on  my  hand,  and  I  could  feel  her  face  wet 
with  tears,  and  she  would  say, "  Please,  father, 
do  come  home  now."  Sometimes  I  used  to 
swear  at  her,  and  often  I've  been  so  drunk 
that  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  Some- 
times I  would  get  angry  with  her  and  send 
her  home,  and  she'd  go  outside  the  dreadful 
place,  and  be  shivering  in  the  cold  and  rain 


32      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

for  hours ;  and  then  when  I  came  staggering 
out  she  would  be  sure  to  be  there  waiting  to 
take  me  home — the  poor  Httle  maid  hardly 
able  to  keep  me  up. 

I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it,  sir — how  the 
cursed  drink  hardens  a  man  against  those 
that  he  would  die  for  when  he  is  sober. 
Why,  'tis  like  as  if  it  opened  the  door  for  the 
devil  to  come  in,  and  he  soon  drives  every 
thing  out  that  doesn't  please  him.  The 
wisest  man  is  a  driveling  fool  then,  and  the 
kindest  man  is  worse  than  a  brute.  O,  'tis 
dreadful,  sir ;  how  it  gets  worse  and  worse. 
How  it  grips  you  like  a  giant,  and  drags  you 
down  again  and  again — going  on  till  it  must 
have  a  dreadful  end  somehow — and  a  good 
thing  if  that  end  is  not  farther  off  than  where 
hope  and  mercy  can  come. 

I  got  so  used  to  it,  and  it  got  such  a  hold 
of  me,  that  I  could  never  go  by  the  public- 


The  Drunken  Fiddler.  33 

house  without  going  in,  and  I  didn't  often  go 
in  without  coming  out  drunk,  for  if  I  had  no 
money  there  was  the  next  Saturday's  earn- 
ings to  pay  up  the  score.  Besides,  my  old 
comrades  were  always  willing  to  stand  more 
drink  for  me,  though  their  own  hungry  little 
ones  at  home  were  starving  for  want  of  it. 

And  so  I  came  to  be  a  drtmkard. 

Ah,  nobody  can  tell  what  that  means! 
'Tis  dreadful  to  think  about  it,  (and  the  old 
man's  voice  choked  with  emotion.)  Why,  I 
would  have  given  every  thing  that  I  had 
for  drink  —  would  have  sold  my  soul  for  a 
drop  more  ! 

Betty  stormed  at  me  every  now  and  then 
as  soon  as  I  came  to  my  senses,  and  would 
frighten  me  a  bit  sometimes  ;  but,  bless  you, 
it  was  more  than  she  or  any  body  else,  except 
God,  could  do  to  mend  me.  And  the  little 
maid  was  that,  sir,  or  next  door  to  it. 


34      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark 

There  was  once  that  I  can  mind  very  well 
when  she  nearly  broke  my  heart.  I've  often 
thought  of  it  since,  though  I  never  spoke  of 
it  before  in  my  life.  'Tis  all  so  plain  before 
me  yet,  like  as  if  it  was  only  a  week  ago.  It 
was  on  a  Sunday  morning.  I  came  gropin' 
my  way  down  stairs  long  after  little  Mary  had 
gone  to  chapel.  I  felt  my  way  to  a  chair  near 
the  fire-place,  and  waited  for  Betty  to  begin 
her  usual  blowin'  up.  But  there  wasn't  a 
word  spoke.  Once  I  heard  her  sigh,  a  great, 
long,  deep,  heavy  sigh  ;  and  that  went  through 
me,  stupid  as  I  was,  for  I  knew  the  reason  of 
it  well  enough.  Betty  was  standin'  with  her 
back  to  me,  I  could  tell ;  and  I  felt  sure  that 
she  was  lookin'  out  of  the  window  over  the 
fields,  and  could  see  the  people  going  to 
church.  She  never  moved  a  bit,  and  I  some- 
how had  her  before  my  mind,  not  with  her 
arms  folded,  but  hangin'  down  all  helpless  by 


The  Drunken  Fiddler.  35 

her  side ;  and  then,  as  if  she  was  talking  to 
herself,  she  says,  "  I  didn't  ever  think  that  I 
should  give  in ;  but  if  the  Lord  would  be 
pleased  to  take  the  little  maid  home,  the 
sooner  'tis  over  with  you  and  me  the  better." 

I  knew  that  she  was  standing  there  with 
red  eyes,  and  biting  her  lips. 

What  a  miserable  wretch  I  was !  And  to 
think  that  she  who  had  done  her  best  all 
along  should  put  herself  down  to  a  level  with 
me,  just  as  miserable  and  bad  as  I  was,  when 
it  was  all  my  doing!  O,  sir,  I  could  have 
killed  myself.  I  got  up  and  felt  my  way  out 
into  the  field  at  the  back  of  the  house.  'Twas 
a  beautiful  morning.  I  could  feel  the  sun 
shininor  all  about  me.  The  bells  were  rinofino- 
for  church,  the  birds  were  singing  every-where, 
the  bees  were  humming  round  every  flower, 
and  the  furze  from  the  common  was  scenting 
all  the  still  air. 


36      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

A  drunkard's  life  is  a  horrible  thing  from 
Monday  morning  to  Saturday  night,  sir ;  but 
^tis  on  a  Sunday  that  it  be  a  hundred  times  the 
worst.  When  every  thing  else  in  the  world 
be  quiet  and  happy,  for  a  man  to  come  out  in 
the  pure  light  and  into  the  sweet  breath  of 
things  and  defile  it,  being  all  ragged,  and 
dirty,  and  wretched  !  I  can't  compare  it  to 
any  thing  but  like  what  Cain  must  have  felt 
when  little  children  ran  away  from  the  dread- 
ful man  with  the  mark  on  his  forehead,  and 
the  flowers  withered  and  died  wherever  he 
set  his  foot — only  that  a  drunkard  has  cursed 
his  wife  and  children  as  well  as  himself,  and 
that  is  worse  than  Cain. 

I  was  coming  in  again,  and  just  as  I  got 
near  to  the  back  door  the  little  maid  came 
home  from  chapel,  and  I  heard  her  go  up  to 
Betty,  and  she  says,  "  Don't  cry,  mother  dear; 
let  me  help  you  with  the  dinner." 


The  Drunken  Fiddler.  37 

And  Betty  spoke  out  sharp — and  no  won- 
der either — "  Dinner,  Mary  !  what's  the  good 
o'  talkin'  like  that.  Your  father  has  drunk 
the  dinner  an'  every  thing  else  a'most,  except 
the  rags  from  off  our  backs." 

And  I  knew  that  little  Mary  came  up  close 
alongside  of  her  and  laid  her  head  upon 
Betty's  arm.  I  could  tell  it  somehow  by  the 
sound  of  her  voice. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother,"  said  the  little  maid,  cry- 
ing her  own  self,  "  God  can  take  care  of  us  if 
we  ask  him !  I'm  sure  he  can."  And  the  little 
maid  went  up  stairs,  and  I  could  hear  the  creak- 
ing steps  stop.  I  knew  in  a  moment  that  she 
was  praying  for  me.  I  could  see  her  quite 
plain,  kneeling  down  by  her  little  bed,  with  her 
hands  clasped  and  all  her  heart  going  up  to 
God  in  her  simple  way.  I  felt  then  somehow 
as  if  she  would  save  me.  I  was  sure  she  would, 
but  1  little  thought  how  it  was  to  come  about 


38      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

And  the  blessed  Father  did  take  care  of 
her  too,  bless  him.  The  wonder  is  that  he 
did  not  take  her  away  altogether,  with  his 
glorious  heaven  all  ready  up  there,  and  his 
poor  little  one  so  hungry  and  wretched  down 
here.  Only  it  would  be  like  taking  away  all 
our  hope  and  our  last  chance.  I  felt  some- 
how as  if  God  was  near  enough  for  us  to  pray 
to  so  long  as  ever  the  little  maid  was  in  the 
place.  I  often  thought  o'  what  she  said  that 
night  as  I  lost  my  eyes,  "Jesus  loves  little 
children,  and  if  I  go  with  you,  father,  he  must 
take  care  of  you  too,  you  know." 

That  day  I  did  what  I  had  not  done  since 
I  was  a  little  lad  by  my  mother's  knee — I 
prayed  to  the  Lord  to  help  me,  and  I  said  if 
the  Lord  would  help  I  never  would  touch  the 
drink  again  as  long  as  I  lived. 


How  He  Made  his  Mark. 


39 


CHAPTER  V. 

HOW  HE  MADE  HIS  MARK. 

'OULD  you  not  have  thought, 
sir,  that  that  would  have  been 
enough  to  cure  me?  and  I 
certainly  did  go  on  better  for 
a  little  while.  But  I  soon 
fell  back  into  my  old  ways  again, 
only  I  became  much  worse  than 
ever.  Though  there — why  you  have, 
heard  it  many  a  time  a'ready  I  dare  say, 
sir.  And  the  blessed  bells  are  rinein'  some- 
thing  merrier  than  my  story  will  be,  if  I 
go  on. 

"  I  have  never  heard  it  altogether,  only  in 
bits  and  scraps,  you  know.     Besides,  you  have 


40       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

told  me  too  much  now  to  stop  here.     It  would 
be  cruel  not  to  tell  it  all,  Uncle  John." 

It  cost  him  an  effort  evidently,  but  the  old 
man  sighed  and  went  on  again. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  night.  You  see  folks 
got  to  know  how  I  spent  my  money,  and  did 
not  care  to  help  me  after  that,  so  I  never  did 
so  well  as  I  used  to  do.  But  that  Saturday 
things  were  wisht,  sure  'nough.  I  couldn't 
get  a  single  penny-piece.  The  rain  was  pour- 
ing down  in  torrents,  and  there  was  scarcely 
any  body  in  the  streets,  and  of  course  I 
couldn't  get  any  music  out  of  the  strings  when 
they  were  dripping  and  soaked  through — for  a 
fiddle,  for  all  it  be  a  friend,  is  a  good  deal  like 
other  friends — 'tis  best  in  fine  weather.  And 
the  little  maid,  too,  was  "coughing  and  shiv- 
erin'  so  that  she  could  hardly  sing  a  bit ;  and 
what  with  one  thing  and  another  I  was  half 
mazed,  and  didn't  care  much  what  happened. 


How  He  Made  his  Mark.  41 

So,  all  desperate  like,  I  went  into  a  public- 
house  where  I  knew  that  I  should  find  a  good 
many  of  my  old  comrades.  They  soon  made 
me  sit  down  alongside  of  them,  and  one  gave 
me  a  glass  o'  grog.  That  set  me  off,  for  I 
was  weak  and  cold,  and  had  scarce  tasted  a 
morsel  for  the  day.  They  tried  to  make  little 
Mary  have  some,  too,  but  she  turned  her  head 
away  crying. 

O,  why  is  there  a  thing  like  this  drink  in 
the  world  that  can  turn  a  man  into  a  devil ! 
I  loved  the  little  maid  more,  a  brave  deal 
more,  than  my  own  life,  yet  I  spoke  out  sharp 
to  her,  and  gave  her  a  push,  quite  angry  be- 
cause she  wouldn't  touch  it.  Ah,  sir,  I  can 
mind  how  she  came  cowering  down  by  my 
side  —  for  every  thing  that  happened  that 
evening  is  like  as  if  it  were  burnt  in  with 
fire  in  my  memory,  and  can  never  come  out 
— I  can  mind  her  hugging  her  trembling  little 


42       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

self  against  me,  and  the  hot  tears  falHng  down 
'pon  my  hand.  You  would  think,  sir,  that 
that  would  break  any  body's  heart ;  but  it 
only  vexed  me  and  made  me  more  desperate. 

(Here  the  tears  fringed  his  closed  eyes,  and 
slowly  traced  their  way  down  his  face.) 

I  was  craving  for  drink,  and  had  no  money. 
Then  it  was  as  if  the  devil  had  whispered  it 
in  my  ear,  and  I  jumped  up  and  shouted  out, 

"  Hurrah,  boys,  here's  a  chance  to  make 
your  fortune !  Here's  the  old  fiddle,  and  the 
highest  bidder  shall  have  it.  Come,  now, 
who'll  start .?     'Tis  a  real  good  one." 

Little  Mary  moved.  Her  hand  was  lifted 
up  till  it  touched  my  face,  and  putting  her 
arm  on  my  neck,  she  sobbed  out 

"  O,  father,  don't,  don't  sell  it ! " 

With  an  oath  I  told  her  to  be  quiet,  and 
pushed  her  down  into  her  seat,  and  she  shrank 
away  into  my  side,  shivering  more  than  ever. 


How  He  Made  his  Mark.  43 

"  Now,  lads,  who'll  be  the  highest  bidder?" 
I  hallooed  out,  half  drunk. 

One  of  them — the  landlord  'twas — bought 
it  for  a  few  shillings,  and  then  I  began  my 
fling.  I  drank  glass  after  glass  until  I  knew 
nothing.  I  was  never  so  bad  in  my  life. 
(Here  Uncle  John  brushed  away  the  tears 
that  came  more  quickly.)  I  don't  know  how 
it  happened  to  this  day,  but  I  s'pose  she  be- 
gan to  ask  me  to  go  home  or  something,  and 
they  tell  me  that  I  hit  her,  sir — hit  the  little 
maid ! — and  she  fell  off  the  seat,  and  when 
they  picked  her  up  she  had  a  cut  in  the  fore- 
head, and  she  was  so  pale  and  so  still  that 
they  thought  at  first  that  she  was  dead. 

(The  old  man  paused  for  a  minute  or  two. 
His  voice  faltered  as  he  went  on  again) — 

Ah,  that  was  a  week,  sir!  The  little  maid 
was  only  stunned,  but  if  I  had  killed  her  I 
couldn't  have  felt  more  condemned  than   I 


44       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

did.  I  crept  about  where  I  thought  nobody 
could  see  me.  I  hurried  away  as  fast  as  I 
could,  knockin'  myself  and  stumbling  if  I 
heard  Betty  comin' ;  and  as  for  the  little 
maid,  I  wouldn't  have  had  her  see  me  for  the 
world.  Never  a  man  hated  himself  like  I  did 
then,  sir. 

In  a  few  days  she — the  little  maid  I  mean, 
sir — was  about  again,  and  one  afternoon  when 
I  was  sitting,  not  knowing  that  she  was  near, 
she  crept  up  and  threw  her  arms  about  my 
neck  in  her  loving  way  and  kissed  me. 

I  s'pose  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  that 
the  little  maid  saw  it,  for  she  said, 

"  Father,  don't  cry ;  it  wasn't  your  fault ! " 
and  she  leaned  her  little  head  against  me. 

My  hand  rested  just  upon  the  scar  of  the 
wound,  and  it  all  came  back  before  me — that 
dreadful  Saturday  night. 

"Twasn't  your  fault,  father,"  she  went  on; 


..  •"///   //■■.Vl'l'^''  '/   %H     '      111  -^'//l 


Feeling  the  Mark. 


How  He  Made  his  Mark.  47 

"  don't  cry ;  it  wasn't  your  fault,  you  know,  it 
was  the  drink." 

The  drink!  ay,  it  was  all  the  drink.  Could 
I  ever  touch  it  again  ?  I  kept  my  finger 
lightly  on  the  little  maid's  forehead,  and  lifted 
my  face  to  heaven,  and  vowed  that  I  would 
never  touch  the  murderous  thing  again  as 
long  as  I  lived,  and  with  a  broken  heart  I 
prayed  the  Lord  to  help  me. 

The  little  maid  must  have  been  watching 
my  lips,  and  half  heard  and  half  guessed  my 
thoughts. 

"  Father,  are  you  going  to  sign  the  pledge  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  for  ever  and  ever,  I  hope," 
I  said  as  I  pressed  her  to  myself 

"  O,  I  am  so  glad ! "  said  the  maid,  with  a 
merry  laugh.  Then  in  her  thoughtful  way 
she  stopped  and  said,  "  But,  father,  you  will 
have  to  do  like  people  who  can't  write ;  they 


48       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

have  to  put  a  mark,  you  know ;  and  that  will 
be,  JoJm  Tregenoweth :  his  mark'.' 

My  hand  rested  upon  the  scar.  "  John 
Tregenoweth :  his  mark"  I  repeated  to  myself, 
and  the  wound  seemed  on  fire  to  my  touch. 
^^  John  Tregenoweth:  his  mark ! — His  mark, 
sure  'nough,  in  writing  that  will  never  come 
out." 

And  partly  because  I  wanted  to  hide  my 
tears,  and  partly  because  I  loved  her  so,  I 
stooped  and  kissed  the  blessed  little  maiden. 

It  isn't  very  large,  sir,  that  mark  on  her 
forehead,  but  it  be  in  my  heart,  sir — larger  and 
deeper  a  brave  bit.  That  was  how  I  signed 
the  pledge ;  and  if  ever  I  was  tempted  to 
touch  the  drink  again,  it  was  always  enough 
just  to  touch  the  little  maiden's  forehead,  and 
say  to  myself: 

John  Tregenoweth :  his  mark. 


The  Quaker's  Coat. 


49 


CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  QUAKER'S  COAT. 

H,  sir,  what  a  fight  of  it  I  had 
after  that ! 

Folks    got    to   know  all 

(W^^__  about  what  I  had  done,  and 

it  wasn't   likely   that    they 

l^were  going  to  do  anything 

more  for  such  a  one  as  me. 

We  were  so  poor  that  very 


^^^ti^  often  we  should  not  have  had  bread 


enough  to  keep  us  alive,  only  the 
^  neighbors  were  sorry  for  the  little 
maid,  and  used  to  send  us  something  now 
and  then  for  her  sake. 

At  last  one  day  I  thought  I  would  try  once 


50      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

more  before  we  quite  starved,  and  see  what  I 
could  get.  I  wouldn't  have  the  little  maid 
with  me — you  see  I  thought  it  would  mind 
them  of  what  most  people  remembered  easy- 
enough  without ;  so  I  gave  her  the  slip,  and 
went  feelin'  my  way  up  the  street.  My  coat 
was  all  rags  and  tatters,  for  though  a  man  may 
have  signed  the  pledge,  it  won't  all  of  a 
sudden  mend  the  holes  that  drink  has  made. 
I  was  very  weak  and  hungry,  and  wondered 
where  I  could  go  for  help,  and  what  I  should 
ask  them  for  when  I  got  there. 

There  was  only  one  gentleman  that  I  could 
think  of  who  was  likely  to  do  anything  for 
me,  so  all  of  a  tremble  and  flutter  I  made  for 
his  house,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

I  could  tell  from  the  way  he  spoke  to  me 
at  the  first  that  he  had  heard  all  about  me, 
and  my  heart  sank  down  to  my  shoes.  Yet  I 
felt  that  he  was  the  one  man  in  the  world  that 


The  Quaker  ^s  Coat.  51 

I  could  trust,  and  so  I  told  him  all  the  story, 
and  how  I  had  signed  the  pledge,  and  meant 
to  keep  it,  too. 

His  tone  altered  then,  and  he  spoke  a  good 
deal  kinder  after  that.  He  asked  me  what  I 
was  going  to  do  for  a  livin' ;  so  I  said  that 
I'd  been  thinkin'  if  I  could  get  a  few  shillings 
I  might  buy  back  my  fiddle.  He  sat  quiet 
for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  said  : — 

"  Nay,  my  friend,  the  fiddle  is  gone,  and  a 
good  thing,  too.  It  would  always  be  a  temp- 
tation to  thee,  John — always  a  snare." 

Well,  that  seemed  to  knock  my  only  hope 
clean  out  of  me ;  so,  vexed  that  I  had  come,  I 
rose  to  go  away. 

"  Sit  down,  friend,  sit  down,"  says  he,  in  his 
quiet  way. 

I  put  down  my  hat  and  stood  by  the  chair, 
but  I  hadn't  heart  enough  to  care  for  any- 
thing he  could  say. 


52       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

He  was  quiet  again  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  he  began  very  slowly  and  quietly, 

"  John,  I've  been  thinkin'  if  thou  hadst  a 
donkey  and  cart  it  would  help  thee.  Thy 
daughter  Mary  could  lead  it  to  the  beach, 
and  thou  couldst  fill  it  with  sand,  and  go  from 
door  to  door,  selling  it  to  the  neighbors."  * 

"  Me  have  a  donkey  and  cart,  sir  ! "  I  cried 
out ;  "  why,  I  might  as  well  think  about  a 
carriage  and  pair." 

"I  think  we  can  manage  it  for  thee,  friend," 
says  he,  so  quiet  as  ever. 

He  got  out  a  paper,  and  wrote  something 
down  that  he  read  to  me,  and  told  me  to  take 
it  round  and  see  what  I  could  get ;  and  he 
put  down  his  own  name  for  a'most  enough  to 
buy  the  donkey,  and  said,  moreover,  that  he 
should  lend  me  five  shillings  for  the  time. 

*  Sand  is  used  very  commonly  in  Cornwall  for  the  floors  and 
passages  of  the  houses. 


The  Quaker's  Coat.  53 

I  couldn't  thank  him, — my  heart  was  too 
full ;  but  I  could  a'most  have  worshiped  him 
then  and  there.  I  spoke  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  then  was  just  going  out,  when  he  says, — 

"  Friend,  just  one  word  more.  Dost  thou 
ever  go  to  the  house  of  God  ?  " 

I  stopped,  and  putting  my  hand  down  over 
my  coat,  I  felt  the  rags  and  holes,  and  I 
said, — 

"There,  sir,  that  is  the  only  coat  I  have 
got,  and  that  isn't  fit  to  go  to  chapel  in." 

"  Well,  friend,  that  difficulty  is  soon  got 
over.  I  will  give  thee  an  old  coat — wilt  thou 
go  then  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  that  I  will!"  I  cried 
with  all  my  heart. 

He  was  gone  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
then  he  comes  back  and  puts  a  bundle  in 
my  hands.  I  couldn't  thank  him  now  so  well 
as  before.     Here  was  what  I  had  longed  for: 

4 


54       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

now  I  could  go  to  chapel  with  the  little 
maid. 

I  had  got  a  good  way  from  the  house  when 
all  of  a  sudden  it  came  across  me — perhaps 
he'll  want  me  to  go  to  the  Quakers'  meeting. 
I  must  see  to  that  before  I  tell  her  any  thing. 
So  I  turned  back  again. 

"  Please,  sir,"  I  asked,  putting  my  head  in- 
side the  door,  "  where  must  I  go  to  ? " 

"  To  all  the  neighbors  who  will  help  thee, 
friend,"  he  says,  thinking  about  the  paper. 

"  But  I  mean,  what  chapel  or  church  must 
I  go  to,  sir  ?" 

"  O,  anywhere,  anywhere !  Please  thyself 
about  that,  friend  only  go  somewhere  ! " 

"  May  I  go  to  the  Primitives  with  my  little 
maid,  please,  sir  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  very  place  for  thee,  John ;  go  there, 
and  the  Lord  bless  thee,"  says  he,  kinder  than 
he  had  spoken  before. 


The  Quaker^ s  Coat.  55 

So  I  came  home,  wondering  what  they  would 
all  say. 

Of  course  Betty  was  fine  and  glad  to  have 
five  shillings  once  more,  and  she  couldn't  stay 
to  hear  me  out,  but  must  go  bustlin'  to  get 
something  to  eat;  and  there  I  went  on  talkin' 
all  about  it,  about  the  donkey  and  cart,  and 
how  we  should  manage,  and  didn't  know  but 
what  she  was  a-listenin',  till  the  little  maid 
came  in  and  found  me  all  by  myself. 

Up  she  came,  running  in  her  happy  way, 
and  then  I  pulled  the  bundle  from  under  my 
arm. 

"  Mary,"  says  I,  "  guess  what  that's  for,"  and 
I  held  up  the  coat. 

When  I  told  her  she  could  scarcely  live 
for  joy. 

"  When  will  it  be  Sunday  ?  "  she  kept  ask- 
ing. "  Will  it  be  Sunday  to-morrow  ?  "  was 
the  first  word  of  each  day.     Never  did  hours 


56       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

and  days  seem  so  long  as  that  week  was  to 
the  little  maid. 

I  was  busy  enough  every  day  gropin'  my 
way  about  to  the  different  places,  ashamed  to 
let  folks  see  me,  and  never  thinkin'  that  any 
one  would  help  me.  Many  a  time  I  got  to 
the  door  and  lifted  my  hand  to  knock,  and 
then  all  of  a  sudden  it  came  across  me  what 
I  had  done,  and  I  turned  and  went  away 
again.  I've  heard  people  talk  about  sin,  sir, 
as  only  a  sort  of  a  trifle  that  can't  make  much 
difference  ;  but  if  a  man's  sin  can  make  him 
feel  like  I  did,  in  the  eyes  of  every  body,  what 
must  it  make  us  look  like  to  Him  who  knows 
us  through  an'  through. 

But  I  did  wonderful  well.  You  see,  that 
start  of  the  Quaker  gentleman  gave  them 
confidence  somehow,  for  they  knew  that  he 
would  be  the  last  man  to  throw  his  money 
away,  for  all  he  was  so  kind,  so  they  felt  that 


The  Quaker  ^s  Coat.  57 

it  was  safe  enough  to  follow  when   he  had 
gone  first. 

The  next  Saturday  night  I  was  sittin'  at 
home  with  Betty,  in  a  nicer  feeling  than  she 
had  been  for  months,  and  we  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  donkey  and  cart,  and  what 
it  would  cost,  and  what  we  could  make  by  it, 
so  that  it  wasn't  until  I  was  going  to  bed  that 
I  thought  about  the  fiddle.  And  then  the 
words  came  to  my  mind,  "  'Tis  gone,  friend, 
and  a  good  thing  too ;  it  would  always  be  a 
temptation  to  thee." 

"He  was  right,"  I  says  to  myself,  "  he  was 
right."  They  say,  you  know,  sir,  that  music 
sounds  best  on  water.  I  know  that  that  night 
there  were  such  pretty  airs  coming  and  going 
through  my  soul  as  could  never  sound  in  a 
drunkard's  ear.  It  was  very  different  kind  of 
music  to  what  I'd  heard  for  many  a  Saturday 
night  past,  and  the  echoes  of  it  seemed  to 


58       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

linger  in  my  dreams,  sweet  a'most  as  the  little 
maid's  singing. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  The  little  maid 
was  full  of  excitement ;  the  day  had  come  at 
last,  and  off  she  went  to  school,  telling  me  to 
be  ready  soon,  for  she  should  be  back  in  time 
to  fetch  me  for  the  service. 

Ah,  that  wonderful  old  coat,  sir!  It  be 
a'most  like  magic,  all  that  it  did. 

The  first  thing  it  did  was  to  get  me  nearly 
a  whole  new  suit.  Betty  had  been  trying  all 
the  week  to  make  the  other  things  come  up 
to  the  coat,  and  that  was  no  easy  matter. 

She  managed  to  patch  up  an  old  pair  of 
trousers  till  they  looked  quite  respectable ; 
and  then — just  like  her  saving  ways  —  she 
brought  out  an  old  waistcoat  that  I  was  mar- 
ried in,  and  that  had  scarce  seen  daylight 
since — a  sort  of  velveteen,  with  big  flowers 
all  in  gay  colors,  like  they  used  to  wear  years 


The  Quaker^ s  Coat.  59 

agone,  and  with  brass  buttons.  Then  she 
put  a  yellow  handkerchief  round  my  neck, 
and  last  of  all  the  coat.  I  had  felt  it  all  over, 
and  knew  that  it  were  Quaker-fashion  —  no 
collar,  and  a  cutaway  tail.  I  thought  Betty 
would  never  have  done  a-tidivatin'  me.  She 
walked  round  and  round,  a-touchin'  here,  and 
a-pullin'  there,  a  brushin'  and  a  pickin'  all 
over,  till  last  of  all  she  stood  looking  at 
me  for  about  a  minute,  and  then  gave  me  a 
smackin'  kiss — it  must  have  come  out  of  the 
waistcoat,  it  was  so  long  since  I'd  had  one 
like  it. 

"  Bless  you,  John,"  she  said,  "  you  do  look 
a'most  a  gentleman  again ;  upon  my  word,  if 
I  be  not  quite  proud  of  you.  You  shall  never 
go  in  rags  again  if  I  have  to  work  away  my 
bones  for  it." 

"  Now  for  the  hat!"  cried  Betty,  hurrying 
up  stairs. 


6o      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

"He's  hanging  up  here  behind  the  door!" 
I  cried  after  her,  and  I  felt  my  way  to  it  and 
took  it  down.  I  could  tell  that  it  was  all 
battered  and  worn.  "  That'll  take  the  gilt 
off  the  gingerbread,"  I  whispered  to  myself, 
feeling  more  sorry  for  Betty's  sake  than 
my  own. 

But  Betty  was  back  in  a  minute.  "  I 
should  think  so,  indeed,"  she  laughed,  "  why 
you  look  like  a  peacock  moultin'  with  that 
thing  on  top  of  all  the  rest.  Why  shouldn't 
my  John  have  his  Sunday  hat?"  And  she 
flings  away  the  old  one  and  puts  on  another. 
How  she  got  it  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  It 
was  a  very  tight  fit,  I  know  that.  Only  then 
I  understood  what  Betty  had  been  getting 
up  so  early  for,  and  coming  to  bed  so  late 
for  and  working  like  a  slave  all  the  week 
through.  "  She  has  been  scrapin'  together 
all  she  could  earn  to  buy  this  here,"  I  said 


The  Quaker^ s  Coat.  6i 

to  myself,  so  I  waited  until  she  had  put  it 
on  all  right,  and  had  given  the  last  touch  to 
my  hair. 

"You'll  do  now,  I  think,  John." 

There  she  was  standing  just  in  front  of  me 
I  could  tell,  with  her  head  on  one  side  look- 
ing so  pleased  as  Punch. 

"  Now,  Betty,"  I  cried,  "  'tis  my  turn  ;"  and 
I  flung  my  arms  around  her  neck  as  I  hadn't 
done  for  many  a  long  day.  "  Bless  you, 
dear ! "  I  says ;  "  you're  a  dear  old  wifie  as 
ever  lived.  Forgive  me  all  that  I  have 
been  to  you.  You  shall  never  have  an  un- 
kind word  from  these  lips  again  so  long  as 
I  live." 

Betty  isn't  a  woman  of  many  words,  sir, 
and  she  didn't  say  any  thing — only  I  fancied 
she  wasn't  in  a  hurry  to  get  away ;  but  just 
then  we  heard  somebody  at  the  door,  and  I 
expect  we  blushed  both  of  us  like  as  if  we 


62       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

were  courtin',  instead  of  being  a  couple  of  old 
married  folks. 

"  What  a  wonderful  old  coat ! "  thinks  I  to 
myself. 


What  Came  of  a  Dream. 


63 


CHAPTER  YII. 

WHAT  CAME  OF  A  DREAM. 

UST  then  little  Mary  came  run- 
ning home  to  take  me  to  chapel. 
It  was  her  turn  now.  ''  Why, 
father,  how  nice  you  do  look ! 
Doesn't  he  look  nice,  mother  ?  '* 
So  of  course  the  little  maid  had 
to  kiss  me  ;  and  then  she  had  to  kiss  her 
mother  because  she  looked  so  happy.  If  she 
could  she  would  have  kissed  her  own  self  for 
very  joy.  "  I  am  so  glad!"  she  cried.  Some- 
how, sir,  the  place  that  morning  was  all  so 
full  o'  sunshine  as  ever  it  could  be. 

It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning,  and  it  did 
seem  delicious   to  feel   so  decent  as  all   the 


64      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

folks  about  me — not  like  a  broken  string  on 
the  fiddle,  with  music  all  about  every-where, 
but  none  in  one's  self.  To  hear  the  folks  with 
their  "Good  morning,  John,"  and  "A  nice 
morning,  John,"  it  was  good  to  feel  that  all 
the  world  wasn't  quite  ashamed  of  me.  Why- 
lots  o'  them  actually  shook  hands  with  me 
who  hadn't  spoken  to  me  for  months,  until  I 
thought  they  must  have  taken  me  for  the 
Quaker  himself. 

"  But  you  had  forgotten  that  flowery  waist- 
coat, and  yellow  affair  round  your  neck,  Uncle 
John,"  I  said  laughingly. 

Yes,  you  see  I  couldn't  think  of  any  thing 
but  the  wonderful  old  coat.  Well,  when  we 
got  to  chapel  little  Mary  led  me  to  a  corner 
just  inside  the  door.  Directly  the  minister 
gave  out  the  hymn,  and  the  people  began  to 
sing  I  felt  that  the  Lord  was  going  to  make 
a  new  man  of  me.     You  see,  sir,  when  I  was 


What  Came  of  a  Dream.  65 

a  little  lad  home  to  my  father's  house  we 
used  to  sing  hymns  on  the  Sunday  evening, 
and  one  of  the  favorites  was  that  one, — 

"  Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy. 
Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore." 

Now  so  soon  as  ever  the  minister  opened 
his  mouth,  what  should  he  do  but  give  out 
that  very  hymn,  and  they  sang  it  to  the  old 
tune  too,  sir. 

Ah,  it  took  me  right  back  to  the  blessed 
old  home  till  I  could  see  it  all — my  father 
with  his  great  bass  voice  one  side,  and  my 
mother — little  Mary's  got  her  voice,  sir,  ex- 
actly, she  was  a  lovely  singer — and  me  on 
the  other,  and  two  or  three  neighbors  that 
used  to  drop  in.  It  was  like  as  if  I  heard 
them  all  singin'  again.  Then  the  minister 
prayed,  and  I  felt  more  than  ever.  I  thought 
about  them  all   in   heaven,  and   I    had  been 


66       John  Tregenoweth:  his  Mark. 

a'most  to  hell !  I  thought  about  what  I  had 
done,  and  all  that  I  was,  and  all  these  things 
came  over  me  like  a  crushing  weight :  it 
broke  my  heart  to  think  of  what  I  had  been 
— how  mad,  and  how  bad,  and  how  miser- 
able ! 

Then  the  minister  began  to  preach.  I 
s'pose  it  was  from  being  blind  that  I  forgot 
all  but  him  and  myself,  and  as  he  began  to 
make  me  feel  that  the  Lord  would  help  me 
and  forgive  my  sins,  and  keep  me  as  his  own 
forever,  I  turned  round  and  knelt  down  there 
and  then  in  the  corner,  and  began  to  pray. 

I  came  home  with  a  broken  heart ;  I  felt 
as  if  I  could  not  live,  and  yet  I  dared  not  die. 
I  spent  the  day  in  prayer,  and  went  to  chapel 
again  in  the  evening,  prayin'  all  along  the 
way. 

After  the  service  they  had  a  meeting  for 
prayer,  and,  of  course,  I  stayed ;  and  some  of 


What  Came  of  a  Dream.  67 

them  who  knew  what  distress  I  was  in  prayed 
for  me  and  prayed  with  me,  and  told  me  all 
about  the  crucified  Saviour,  but  I  went  home 
as  miserable  as  ever.  How  could  I  rest  with 
a  load  of  sins  like  mine  breaking  me  down, 
and  hell  yawning  at  my  feet  ?  I  knelt  that 
night  at  my  bed,  praying  and  groaning,  for 
hours.  At  last  I  was  tired  out,  and  fell  asleep 
there  on  my  knees. 

Ah,  sir,  I  was  comin'  home  from  the  far 
country.  It  was  very  dark,  and  I  couldn't 
find  the  way,  and  this  was  how  his  friendly 
hand  led  my  poor  blind  steps  into  it.  May 
be  it  was  as  the  parson  says,  that  I  mixed  up 
a  good  many  things  in  my  dream — what  the 
preacher  had  said,  and  what  I  had  heard  in 
the  prayer-meeting,  and  about  the  little  maid ; 
but  it  was  the  Lord's  doings  for  all  that. 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  in  a  dungeon,  a  con- 
demned prisoner,  with  great  heavy  chains  at 


68      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

my  neck,  and  at  my  wrists,  and  at  my  ankles  ; 
and  I  was  going  to  be  punished  with  death. 
I  thought  my  friends  came  and  looked  in  at 
the  iron  grating,  and  shook  their  heads  in 
pity  for  me  and  sighed;  but  they  could  not 
help  me. 

Then  came  horrible  grinning  faces  at  the 
grating,  and  mocked  me.  They  too  passed 
away,  and  all  was  dark  and  awfully  still,  like 
the  grave. 

Then  suddenly  a  faint  light  shone  through 
the  grating,  and  I  looked  up.  O,  I  shall 
know  Him  again  wherever  I  see  Him — a  face 
was  there  that  shone  with  goodness  and  piti- 
ful love,  a  face  so  wonderful  in  its  love  that 
its  look  seemed  to  save  me.  He  spoke  so 
tenderly  and  sorrowfully,  as  if  He  were  very 
sad  for  my  sake,  and  said,  Follow  Me.  I  was 
chained,  and  the  dungeon  was  secured  with 
bolts  and  bars,  and  doubly  locked ;  but  I  felt 


What  Came  of  a  Dream.  69 

as  if  I  could  do  any  thing  He  told  me,  and 
as  I  tried  to  get  up  the  chains  fell  clanking  to 
the  ground ;  and  as  I  came  to  the  door  it  fell 
back  before  me,  and  I  followed  Him  forth 
into  a  clear  light  like  a  starry  night,  and  up  a 
lonely  hill.  And  there  suddenly  He  appeared 
upon  a  cross — His  hands  and  His  feet  and 
His  side  were  torn  with  wounds,  and  a  cruel 
crown  of  thorns  was  pressed  down  upon  His 
forehead.  My  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  fell 
down  before  Him,  and  cried,  "  Who  hath  done 
this  ? " 

O,  I  never,  never  shall  forget  it — how  He 
spoke  again,  so  pitiful,  so  loving,  "  Fear  not : 
I  have  borne  thy  sins  in  my  own  body  upon 
the  tree." 

"  My  sins,"  I  cried,  "  my  sins,  my  Lord ! " 
Then  a  strange  light  and  peace  broke  on  me, 
and  I  woke  up  with  the  words  upon  my  lips, 
John  Tregenoweth :  his  mark. 


70      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

Whether  you  hold  with  dreams  or  not,  sir, 
I've  been  a  new  man  ever  since.  'Tis  true 
that  verse  of  the  hymn — differing  perhaps  for 
different  men,  but  true  for  all  of  us — 

"  Thou  know'st  the  way  to  bring  me  back, 
My  fallen  spirit  to  restore." 

I've  been  in  a  new  world  ever  since.  "  I'm 
not  a  blind  man  any  more,"  I  said  to  Betty 
next  day,  "  but  all  full  of  light.  Like  a  house 
on  the  moors  in  a  winter's  night — dark  enough 
and  stortny  outside  ;  a  blustering  wind,  per- 
haps, and  a  pitchy  darkness  outside  ;  but  in- 
side, bless  the  Lord,  a  good  fire,  and  a  cheer- 
ful hearth,  and  plenty  of  light." 

Betty,  too,  said  that  she  wasn't  going  to  let 
me  go  to  heaven  without  her  if  she  could 
help  it.  And  what  our  Betty  do  say,  sir,  she 
do  generally  mean,  and  there's  no  turnin'  her, 
either.     She  began  to  pray  and  set  about  re- 


What  Came  of  a  Dream.  71 

liglon  in  her  quiet,  earnest  way,  like  she  do 
set  about  every  thing  when  she  has  made  her 
mind  up  to  it.  Very  quiet  and  very  earnest 
she  be  still,  and  may  be  she's  one  o'  the  sort 
that  don't  get  credit  for  half  as  much  good- 
ness as  there  be  in  them.  'Tisn't  much  you 
can  get  out  of  her,  sir,  in  the  way  o'  words, 
but  it  be  in  her  life,  Sundays  and  week-days, 
too,  and  that's  better  than  all  the  talk  about 
it  that  the  world  ever  listened  to. 

Since  that  time  the  whole  house  has  been 
converted.  Bless  you,  sir — you  would  hardly 
have  known  our  kitchen — 'twas  turned  from  a 
little  hell  to  a  little  heaven  ;  and  for  many  a 
year  I  don't  think  there's  been  a  happier  place 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Not  but  what  we've 
been  pinched  a  bit  now  and  then,  and  pinched 
sharp  too,  sometimes,  but  a  hymn  of  praise 
and  a  bit  of  prayer  be  wonderful  things  to 
keep   a  man    happy.     It  always  put   me  in 


72      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

mind  of  windin'  up  the  parson's  musical 
box — away  it  goes  again,  with  the  music  as 
fresh  and  as  sweet  as  if  it  never  had  run 
down. 


The  Donkey  mid  Cart.  *]2i 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    DONKEY    AND    CART. 

^E  soon  got  the  donkey  and 

lli-h     cart,  and  wonderful  set  up 

we  were  —  little  Mary  an' 

If  mc — she  a-leadingf  the  don- 

key,  an'  me  at  the  back  of 

the   cart,  my  hand   resting 

on  its  back  board  to  guide 

me  in  ofoino-  down  to  the  sands,  or  a-comin' 

home  with  the  load  and  a-selling   it  to  the 

neighbors. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  we'd  got  it, 
that  one  day  we  were  comin'  up  the  hill  from 
the  beach — I  was  walking  behind  with  my 
face  lifted  up  to  the  light  and  warmth  of  the 


74       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

sun,  and  we  were   singing  a  hymn   that  I'd 
picked  up,  sort  o'  tens  and  'levens — 

"  My  God,  I  am  thine  ;  what  a  comfort  divine, 
What  a  blessing,  to  know  that  my  Jesus  is  mine." 

All  of  a  sudden  the  little  maid  stopped. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  says  she,  and  I  could 
tell  that  she  made  a  pretty  courtesy. 

"  Good-morning  to  thee,  my  dear,  good- 
morning,"  says  the  gentleman  —  oncommon 
kindspoken  he  was.  "  This  is  thy  little  maid 
Mary  that  thou  wert  telling  me  of,  I  s'pose 
John,"  he  says  to  me. 

I  was  going  to  speak,  but  before  I  had -time 
for  a  word  he  began  again  : — 

"  I  see  thou  hast  got  a  donkey  and  cart 
friend." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  I  said,  "  I  shall  have  to  bless  you 
all  the  days  o'  my  life  —  you  and  the  old 
coat." 


Leaving  the   Beach. 


The  Donkey  a7id  Cart.  jy 

"Why—  did5;t  thou  find  the  donkey  and 
cart  in  the  old  coat  ? "  he  asked,  turning 
round  to  little  Mary  in  a  merry  way. 

"  No,  sir,  but  something  a  thousand  times 
better  than  that;"  and  as  I  spoke  tears  o' joy 
ran  down  my  cheeks. 

"Why,  John,  was  there  bank-notes  in  the 
pockets  ? "  says  he,  wondering  whatever  it 
could  be. 

"  Better  than  bank-notes,  sir.  I  found  a 
new  heart  in  it,  and  a  new  life.  Aye,  sir, 
Mar}^  an'  Betty,  an'  me  have  seemed  to  find 
a  new  house  in  it,  an'  a  new  street,  an'  a  new 
place,  an'  a  new  world.  Evei^  thing  be  new, 
sir  ;  and  as  we  go  a-singing  along  now,  so 
light  and  so  happy  as  a  bird,  I  feel  that  a 
king  'pon  his  throne  bean't  happier  than  we 
are.  Ah,  sir,  that  was  a  very  wonderful  old 
coat ! " 

And  I  told  him  all  about  the  chapel — about 


78      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

the  sermon,  an'  the  dream,  and  all  about  how 
I  got  converted.  He  didn't  say  a  word  for  a 
minute  a'most.  Then  he  took  my  hand  — 
'twas  all  sandy  you  know,  sir — and,  says  he, 
"God  bless  thee,  John  —  God  bless  thee!" 
and  he  was  gone. 

Ah,  he's  been  dead  years  now.  When  he 
was  ill  one  day  he  sent  for  me.  I  couldn't 
make  out  what  he  wanted. 

He  was  very  ill  and  could  scarce  speak, 
but  when  I  was  close  by  his  bed  he  whis- 
pered— 

"  John,"  he  says,  "  tell  me  that  story  that 
thou  didst  tell  me  once — about  thy  going  to 
the  Primitive  Chapel." 

I  began  to  tell  him  about  the  old  coat. 

"  Not  that,  friend,  not  that,"  he  whispered, 
"  but  thy  dream — let  me  hear  what  it  was  that 
He  said  to  thee  in  thy  dream." 

So  I  told  him  all  about  it  till  I  came  to 


The  Donkey  and  Cart.  79 

those  words,  "  Fear  not :  I  have  borne  thy 
sins  in  my  own  body  upon  the  tree." 

"  That's  it,"  he  muttered,  quite  faint,  "  that's 
it ;"  and  I  heard  him  a-sayin'  it  over  and  over, 
"  Fear  not,  fear  not." 

Then  he  whispers  to  me,  "  Thank  thee, 
friend,  thou  hast  done  me  good.  The  Lord 
bless  thee  !     We  shall  meet  again,  I  trust." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  I  said,  "  but  I  should 
dearly  love  to  have  a  bit  o'  prayer  with  you, 
sir,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Thank  thee,  John,  thank  thee,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  Go,  and  when  the  Spirit  moves  thee, 
lift  up  thy  heart  for  me,  John.  The  Lord 
bless  thee ! " 

"  Ah,  sir,"  I  says,  as  I  went  toward  the  door, 
"  the  Spirit  has  moved  me  hundreds  o'  times, 
and  I've  lifted  up  my  heart  for  you  and  my 
voice  too.  (There  was  an  abundance  of  both 
whenever  John   prayed.)      Many's   the  time 


8o       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

that  the  little  maid  an*  me  have  prayed  for 
you  down  under  the  cliffs." 

He  died  next  day,  sir,  very  quiet.  They 
thought  that  he  was  sleepin'.  I  often  won- 
dered how  he  managed  about  the  singing 
when  he  woke  up  in  glory.  Ah,  he  was  a 
blessing  to  me,  and  I  have  sung  for  him  ever 
since,  a'most  enough  for  two. 

The  donkey  and  cart  prospered  middlin' 
well.  'Twas  a  bit  rough  and  wet  sometimes 
'pon  the  sands  in  winter,  and  coming  over  the 
downs;  but  many  a  happy  hour  the  little  maid 
and  me  has  had  down  there. 

After  we  had  filled  the  cart  with  sand  we 
used  to  rest  for  a  bit,  and  that  bit  o'  rest  was 
wonderful.  When  the  tide  was  out  we  used 
to  sit  in  a  cave  —  how  pretty  the  singing 
would  sound  in  there,  sure  'nough — and  the 
echoes :  and  the  low  swell  of  the  sea  coming 
always  in  tune  with  it.     Sometimes,  when  it 


The  Do7ikey  and  Cart.  8 1 

was  high  water,  we  sat  'pon  the  rocks.  The 
little  maid  would  read  a  chapter  out  o'  the 
Bible,  specially  out  o'  Revelation — it  be  all 
full  of  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  music,  and 
glory.  Then  she  would  teach  me  a  new  hymn, 
or  we'd  sing  an  old  favorite  together,  an'  finish 
up  with  a  bit  o'  prayer. 

And  the  little  maid — why  I  could  a'most 
see  it  all  with  her  eyes,  for  she  loved  to  tell 
me  about  the  look  of  the  sea,  an'  the  sky,  an' 
the  cliffs.  I  could  see  the  rocks  shinin'  wet 
as  the  tide  went  out — their  sides  all  shaggy 
like  with  yellow  and  brown  sea-weed,  or  the 
little  pools  in  them  full  of  red  an'  pink  an' 
golden  weed — and  shells  and  dartin'  fish,  and 
the  blue  sky  reflected  ever  so  deep  down. 

Or  sometimes  she'd  tell  me  about  the  cliff 
— how  it  hung  over  us  high  up  a'most  against 
the  sky — or  how  a  great  piece  had  fallen,  and 
swept  a  place  right  down  to  the  beach,  and 


82       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

lay  piled  in  great  rocks — or  where  it  seemed 
to  spread  out  "  like  a  lady's  lap,"  as  little  Mary 
called  it ;  an'  there  were  the  green  burrows, 
where  the  rabbits  lived — how  the  little  maid 
used  to  laugh  at  their  twinklin'  tails. 

She  would  tell  me  about  it  till  I  could  see 
it  quite  plain.  How  on  a  stormy  day  she 
would  shout  with  joy  as  the  wind  came  whist- 
lin'  about  us,  and  the  waves  came  sweepin'  in. 

"  O,  father,  here's  a  great  one  comin' ! "  she 
used  to  say,  holdin'  my  hand  so  tight ;  "  the 
wind  is  blowin'  back  his  white  hair — how  high 
he  rises  above  the  rest !  now  he's  curlin'  him- 
self over — here  he  comes  —  here  he  comes  ! 
What  a  rage  he  is  in  !     Hark,  father  ! " 

And  I  heard  the  thunder  of  his  fall  and  tne 
hissing  as  the  waves  spread  out  and  up  the 
beach,  and  little  Mary  ran  to  let  its  foam  catch 
her  if  it  could ;  an'  then  would  take  my  hand 
again,  as  with  deepenin'  roar  and  rattle  of  the 


The  Donkey  and  Cart,  83 

shingle,  the  waters  flowed  out  again,  to  be 
caught  and  curled  and  thundered  back  by  an- 
other wave. 

I  don't  wonder,  sir,  that  John  was  sent  to 
Patmos  to  know  about  heaven.  I  reckon  that 
there's  more  of  it  in  the  sea  than  in  any  thing 
else  in  the  world — such  grand  music  always, 
and  like  heaven,  because  the  waves  are  never 
tired  and  never  still — they  praise  Him  day  and 
night  in  his  holy  temple. 

And  then  to  hear  the  little  maid  tell  of  the 
sunset.  I  think  she  loved  that  most  of  all. 
One  day  she  sat  by  me  quite  still,  looking  at 
it  for  a  long  time.  "  Father,"  she  said,  as  if 
she  was  afraid  to  speak  too  loud,  "  'tis  like  the 
King  of  Glory  in  his  palace.  There's  a  gold- 
en street  leading  right  across  the  waters  up 
to  it.  You  know  what  it  says.  The  street  of 
the  city  was  pure  gold.  And  there  is  the 
great  King  himself  all  in  his  purple  robes,  and 


84       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

all  his  palace  is  lit  up  with  splendor."  Then 
she  was  quiet  again  for  a  long  time,  and  by 
and  by  she  says — 

"  Father,  don't  you  think  that  must  be  the 
way  to  heaven  over  there  ?  " 


The  New  Parson. 


85 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  NEW  PARSON. 

O  we  went  on  pretty  middlin* 
you  know,  sir,  until  the  new 
parson  came. 

I  knew  the  old  man  was 


^  dead,  for  the  bell  was  tolled 
s"^!:ti|l  all  day — but  he  lived  in  the 
^^^^  south  o'  France,  or  some 
outlandish  place  or  other,  and  had  a  sort  o' 
curate  to  preach  'pon  Sunday  mornings,  and 
to  come  over  here  for  the  buryin's  and  wed- 
din's — leastways  that  be  all  that  I  could  ever 
make  out. 

When   we  heard  that   the   new  man  was 
coming  we  were  curious  to  know   what  he 


86       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

was  like.  Well,  one  day  —  we  hadn't  heard 
that  he'd  come — little  Mary  and  me  was  sit- 
ting singing  in  the  cave,  after  we'd  filled  the 
cart  with  sand  —  we'd  just  finished  the  last 
verse,  when  a  voice  came  out  of  the  end  of 
the  cave.    . 

"  Thank  you,  good  friends,  thank  you." 
Little  Mary  jumped  up,  and  clinging  to  me 
she  looked  into  the  end  o'  the  cave ;  but  I 
s'pose  it  was  all  dark,  and  she  couldn't  see 
nothing. 

"  Father  !  "  she  says,  quite  solemn,  "  did  you 
hear  that !     Is  it  the  dev — ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  laughed  the  gentleman,  comin* 
nearer.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you  " — 
and  I  heard  him  come  clamberin'  over  the 
rocks. 

"  I  do  believe  it  be  the  new  parson  " — the 
little  maid  whispered,  all  of  a  tremble  still. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you,"  he  says, 


The  New  Parson.  87 

coming  close  to  us,  "  I  was  curious  to  know 
how  far  this  cave  went  back,  and  while  I  was 
away  in  the  end  of  it  I  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  your  voices,  almost  as  much  as  you 
were  startled  by  mine.  This  little  mermaid 
of  yours  has  a  very  sweet  voice." 

"  She  be  a  pretty  singer,  sir,"  I  says,  takin' 
a  fancy  to  the  man  at  the  very  first. 

"  You  don't  know  who  I  am  1 "  he  said  to 
me.  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  know,  cepts  it 
was  the  new  parson. 

"  So  you're  expecting  a  new  parson,  are 
you,"  says  he,  like  as  if  he  didn't  know  any 
thing  about  it. 

"  We  heard  tell  that  the  old  gentleman  was 
dead,  sir,"  said  the  little  maid. 

"  But  you've  got  nothing  for  a  parson  to  do 
in  these  parts,  have  you  ?  The  folks  are  all 
Methodists — old  Methodists,  or  Primitives,  or 
Brianites,  or  New  Connection  Methodists,  or 


88       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

Teetotal  Methodists.  There's  nothing  for  a 
parson  but  to  marry  and  bury  them." 

"  Well,  sir,"  I  says,  "  that  depends  what 
kind  of  a  man  he  be.  There's  plenty  o'  work 
always  for  folks  that'll  do  it." 

"  That's  true — that's  true,"  said  he.  "  Now, 
suppose  I  begin  with  you.  Here's  a  job  to 
hand  already.     I  might  teach  you  to  read." 

"  Please,  sir,  father  be  blind — I  have  to  read 
to  him,  sir,"  an'  the  little  maid  put  her  hand 
round  my  neck  as  she  said  it. 

"  Blessings  on  your  kindly  little  face,"  says 
the  parson,  so  as  quite  won  my  heart.  "  But 
if  he  could  read  for  himself  it  would  do  no 
harm,  would  it .?" 

The  tears  filled  my  eyes.  I  should  never 
see  another  book  until  the  books  were  opened ; 
and  I  often  prayed  that  I  might  read  my  name 
there — written  in  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  I  explained  with  a  sigh,  "  I  think 


The  New  Parsott.  89 

you  don't  understand.  I  be  blind,  sir — quite 
blind." 

"  But  I  belong  to  an  association  for  teach- 
ing the  blind  to  read,"  says  the  parson* 

"The  blind!"  cried  little  Mary. 

"To  read,  sir!"  I  said,  shakin*  my  head,  as 
much  as  to  say — that'll  never  be. 

He  told  us  all  about  the  raised  type,  and 
how  the  finger-tips  felt  the  words. 

"  Father,  that  will  be  nice,"  whispered  little 
Mary ;  and  then  turning  to  the  gentleman, 
she  asked  him,  "  But  please,  sir,  will  there  be 
«//the  Bible?  will  there  be  Revelation?  Be- 
cause father  loves  Revelation — he  says  there 
be  so  much  music  in  it." 

"  I  will  get  him  Revelation,"  and  the  parson 


*  A  quiet  but  most  useful  little  ort^anization  in  Cornwall — 
"  Itinerant  Teaching  of  the  Blind  to  Read  the  Sacred  Scriptures, 
and  to  Write ; "  which  reports  no  less  than  one  hundred  and 
eighty-two  persons  thus  taughf.     (See  Report  for  1872.) 


90      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

laughed.  "  Likes  music,  does  he  ? "  he  went 
on.     "  Can  you  play,  my  friend  ?" 

"  Please,  sir,  father  has  sold  his  fiddle,"  said 
the  little  mafd,  a-takin'  hold  of  my  hand. 

"  Likes  music,  and  sold  his  fiddle — that's 
strange !"  and  I  could  tell  that  he  sat  himself 
down  alongside  of  us,  and  waited  for  us  to  tell 
how  it.  happened.  Well,  I  thought,  it  was 
part  of  my  punishment,  when  the  little  maid 
gave  me  a  kiss,  and  says  she,  "  We  never  want 
it  at  all,  sir  ;  we  can  sing  prettier  now  than  we 
could  then,  can't  we  father.^" 

So  without  a  word  more  about  it,  he  turns 
round  to  the  little  maid,  "  Now,  if  I  do  this  for 
your  father,  what  will  you  do  for  me  ?  Will 
you  come  and  sing  in  my  choir?" 

"  Please,  sir,  we  do  sing  up  to  our  chapel," 
says  little  Mary. 

"  She  do  mean  the  Primitives,  sir,"  says  I, 
wonderin'  what  he'd  think  of  that. 


The  New  Parson.  91 

"Ah,  Methodists  again — all  Methodists," 
and  he  spoke  as  pleasant  as  ever.  "  But  are 
you  there  all  day  ? " 

"  Well,  there  be  Sunday-school  first  of  all," 
the  little  maid  told  him,  "then  preachin'  in  the 
mornin'  sometimes,  or  else  in  the  afternoon — 
then  always  preachin'  in  the  evening,  and  a 
prayer-meetin'  after." 

The  parson  laughed  again,  "  Not  much 
time  left  for  me,  then — that's  clear.  But  if 
you  understand  music,  we  shall  manage  it." 
And  he  wished  us  good  mornin'. 

"He  be  a  nice  man,"  says  the  little  maid, 
when  he  was  gone.  And  so  he  be  still,  sir, 
bless  him — the  same  as  ever. 

That  was  our  first  meetin' — I've  minded 
him  of  it  scores  of  times.  And  he  were  as 
good  as  his  word  and  a  hundred  times  better. 
Ah,  it  was  wonderful — wonderful — that  read- 
in'!    When  I'd  learnt  to  know  the  words,  and 


92       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

knew  them  well  enough  to  think  about  the 
meanin' — wonderful !  I've  very  often  thought 
about  Thomas,  sir,  as  his  trembling  fingers 
were  put  into  the  nail-prints,  and  as  he  felt 
the  spear-wound,  and  cried  out,  "  My  Lord 
and  my  God  !"  That  be  just  how  my  fingers 
seem  to  go  along  the  ridges  of  the  letters,  a 
feeliri  the  truth.  You  can  take  hold  of  it  all 
so  certain  sure,  and  it  is  my  Lord  and  my  God 
all  the  way  through ;  and  I  shut  up  the  Book 
with  my  heart  so  full  o'  glory  as  ever  it  can 
hold 

But  that  was  only  the  beginning  of  his 
kindness.  He  paid  a  man  to  teach  me  how 
to  make  nets,  so  that  the  little  maid  an'  me 
could  stay  home  on  wet  days,  an'  do  just  so 
well  as  with  the  donkey  an'  cart ;  specially 
when  we  got  clever  at  it,  an'  could  get  on  fast 
enough.  Bless  him — as  I've  often  told  him, 
he  was  a'most  so  good  as  another  old  coat. 


The  New  Parson.  93 

An'  then,  like  as  if  to  make  me  so  that  I 
couldn't  wish  for  any  thing  more,  came  that 
blessed  organ. 

You  know,  sir,  there  had  been  one  in  the 
old  parson's  time,  but  nobody  ever  touched  it. 
'Twas  all  rotten  an'  damp,  an'  no  good  at  all, 
they  said ;  and  there  it  might  have  been  till 
now,  only  the  new  parson  had  it  all  down, 
and  made  it  over  again  ;  then  one  day  he  says 
to  the  little  maid  an'  me — 

"  You  told  me  one  day,  John,  that  you  un- 
derstood something  about  music." 

"  I  do  dearly  love  it,  sir,"  I  said ;  "  an'  love 
goes  furthest  in  makin'  folks  understand  any- 
thing, I  do  reckon." 

"  That's  not  far  wrong,  certainly,"  and  he 
turned  to  little  Mary  in  his  laughin'  way — 
she  was  about  seventeen,  sir — "  So,  for  that 
reason,  I  s'pose,  your  Mary  here  understands 
all  about  Zacchy  Pendray." 


94      John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

I  could  tell  that  the  little  maid  blushed,  as 
we  both  laughed  ;  for  you  see,  sir,  they  always 
was  mighty  fond  of  each  other. 

"  But  I  dare  say  that  Mary  is  wondering 
what  such  impertinent  questions  can  have  to 
do  with  music,"  he  said  directly.  "  Well,  you 
know,  John,  that  I  have  finished  the  organ, 
and  now  I  must  find  a  player.  I've  been 
looking  about,  and  can  think  of  nobody  but 
you,  John." 

"  Me,  sir,"  I  cried  ;  "  me  play  the  organ ! " 
and  it  fairly  took  my  breath  away  to  think 
of  it. 

"  O,  father !  O,  sir,  you  are  very,  very 
kind  ! "  cried  the  little  maid,  bewildered  think- 
in'  about  it. 

"  Well,  come  to-morrow  to  the  church,  and 
let  me  give  you  your  first  lessons,"  he  said,  as 
he  went  away. 

So  he  taught  me  how  to  play.     As    I've 


The  New  Parson.  95 

told  him,  he  was  eyes  to  the  blind  before,  but 
now  he  let  heaven  in  at  my  ears  too. 

Do  you  reckon,  sir,  that  there  be  any 
thing  else  in  the  world  like  it  ?  The  sea  is 
fine — but  then  you  can  only  listen  to  it — you 
can't  make  it  storm  an'  ripple  an'  toss  as  you 
like.  And  the  wind,  sir — that  be  very  grand, 
when  you  get  one  of  our  sou'-westers  a-roarin' 
an'  moanin'  an'  playin'  his  great  swell  notes 
'pon  the  sea.  But  those  be  God's  organ  that 
nobody  can  play  only  himself  But  next  to 
them,  isn't  it  wonderful  to  sit  down  and  make 
such  glorious  music — now  to  have  the  sea,  an' 
the  thunder,  an'  the  wild  wind,  just  as  you 
like — then  to  make  it  all  so  soft  an'  gentle, 
it  might  be  an  angel  a-whisperin'  to  a  little 
dyin'  child,  an'  tellin'  it  not  to  be  afraid ;  and 
then  burstin'  forth  in  such  rapture  as  if  the 
host  of  heaven  sang  triumphant  welcome  to 
some  old  warrior  who  had  got  safely  home. 


96       John  Tregenoweth  :  his  Mark. 

I  often  think  that  they  will  have  a  grand  one 
up  in  heaven.  Ah,  what  choruses  we  shall 
have — leastways,  if  there  isn't,  it  must  be  be- 
cause some  of  us  would  be  lovin'  it  too  much, 
an'  forgettin'  the  King  of  Glory  ! 

And  now  my  little  Mary  be  gone.  Well, 
there,  'tis  only  a  matter  of  four  miles  off,  and 
Zacchy  is  a  brave  lad,  and  a  good  singer,  too. 
And  he  has  got  a  treasure  anyhow.  Ah,  sir, 
she  was  a'most  an  angel  born,  was  my  little 
Mary! 

w  W  7P  w  w 

Here  the  old  man  paused.  The  bells  had 
ceased.  The  glow  that  lingered  in  the  west- 
ern sky  had  passed  from  radiant  gold  and  red 
to  deep-toned  purple,  and  now  was  sinking 
into  calm  blue  depths  all  brilliant  with  the 
silvery  sparkling  of  the  stars.  The  sea  was 
rippling  to  the  shore  with  gentle  melody, 
breaking  into  crests  and  curves  of  light.     It 


The  New  Parson. 


97 


seemed  like  a  fair  finish  to  the  old  man's 
story.  With  such  a  restful  calm  he  was  pass- 
ing on  toward  heaven,  singing  as  he  went, 
until  his  soul  should  break  into  light  and 
music  on  the  eternal  shore. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR, 


John  Ti^genoweth: 
HIS  MARK. 

A  CORNISH  STORY.    SQUARE  t2M0. 

"  Very  touching,  and  told  with  great  pathos  and  power.  The 
history  of  the  hero  powerfully  enforces  the  great  lesson  of  temper- 
ance. It  is  a  capital  book  for  our  young  folk." — Methodist  Tem- 
perance Magazine. 

"  This  is  a  most  touching  story,  admirably  told,  and  worthy  to 
rank  with  'Jessica's  First  Prayer,'  'Little  May,'  and  other  books 
which  will  always  be  favorites." — Children's  Advocate. 


ll 


16ino.      Sixtietli   Thonsand.      Paper,    3  cents. 


Tk  Stoi]  of  Billf  Uraj. 


16mo.    Paper,  -I  cents. 


BY  THE  SAME   AUTHOR. 


[norm,  and  His  Religious  Notions. 

Twentieth  Thousand.!  2mo.  IVumeroiis  Ilhistrationa,  Clotli  Extra,  QI. 
Paper,  16mo.,  50  ceuts. 

"  There  is  a  reality  and  freshness  about  the  book  that  will  be 
sure  to  render  it  a  favorite  wherever  it  is  known." — Christian  Age. 

"  Rich  in  Cornish  anecdotes  and  passages  from  the  simple  an- 
nals of  the  poor,  Mr.  Pearse's  book  must  be  popular,  and  being 
full  of  Gospel  truth  cannot  fail  to  be  useful." — Sword  and  Trowel. 

" '  Daniel  Quorm '  is  a  worthy  companion  to  '  Mister  Horn.' 
Indeed,  we  should  say  it  is  the  best  production  of  the  author's 
pen." — Methodist  New-Connection  Magazine. 

"'Daniel  QuoiTn'  is  a  most  wonderful  character.  .  .  .  His  '  re- 
ligious notions'  are  so  just  and  of  such  intrinsic  value,  and  withal 
expressed  in  so  quaint,  and  shrewd,  and  practical  a  manner,  that 
we  should  like  for  all  our  readers,  at  least  for  a  time,  to  become 
members  of  '  Brother  Dan'el's'  class.  This  book  has  our  heartiest 
recommendation." — Bible- Christian  Magazine. 

"  Mr.  Pearse  writes  with  a  sure  pen,  with  a  keen  appreciation 
of  humor,  and  a  wide  knowledge  of  human  nature.  .  .  .  Hand- 
somely got  up,  well  illustrated.  His  characters,  when  elaborated, 
are  not  mere  shadows,  but  stand  bolJly  out  as  people  who  live, 
move,  and  talk.  .  .  .  Bright  sketches  well  calculated  to  serve 
Methodism  wherever  known." —  IVatchmaji. 

"  This  book  is  worthy  of  the  special  notice  of  the  Class-leaders 
of  Methodism,  while  all  devout  Christians  may  find  in  it,  amid 
beauty,  humor,  and  pathos,  words  profitable  for  direction  and  in- 
struction."— Methodist  Recorder. 

"  We  warmly  commend  it  as  of  the  most  bright,  sparkling,  racy 
books  that  we  have  seen  for  many  a  day.  Mr.  Pearse  has  rare 
power  in  sketching  character.  Some  of  the  touches  in  this  book 
could  hardly  be  exceeded." — Irish  Evangelist. 

"  The  readers  of  this  Magazine  have  no  need  to  be  told  how 
well  worth  knowing  is  '  Daniel  Quorm,'  and  how  full  of  shrewd- 
ness, pith,  and  point  are  his  'religious  notions.'" — City-Road 
Magazine. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


Hister  I|orn  and  His  Friends;  or,  Givers  and 

GIVING. 

12mo.    IVumeroua  Illustrations.     Cloth  Extra,  Price,  gl.    Paper, 
16ino.,  50  cents.     Uniform  with  "  Daniel  Qiiorm." 

"  This  is  a  spicy  book  on  giving,  and  is  written  with  admirable 
point,  humor,  and  pungency.  It  is  the  very  best  thing  of  its  class 
we  have  ever  seen,  including  two  or  three  of  no  ordinary  power 
by  our  American  cousins.  If  you  know  a  stingy  professor,  who 
wants  enlargement  of  mind  and  of  heart,  send  him  a  copy  of  this 
book.  If  it  does  not  prove  an  effective  cure,  you  may  give  him 
up  as  absolutely  hopeless.  This  book  deserves  a  wide  circula- 
tion."— Irish  Evangelist. 

"  It  has  seldom  fallen  to  our  lot  to  read  a  little  book  so  fresh, 
so  vigorous,  so  racy.  We  do  not  kjiow  whether  to  admire  most 
its  combined  humor  and  pathos,  the  perfect  naturalness  of  the 
narrative,  or  its  sound  and  wholesome  moral.  For  pungent,  pithy 
plainness  of  speech,  it  is  quite  equal  to  Mr.  Spurgeon's  most  pop- 
ular work,  'John  Plowman's  Talk..'  The  book  is  written  to 
enforce  and  illustrate  tlie  maxim,  A  man  ought  to  think  as  much 
about  giving  as  al)out  getting.  It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a 
volume  so  likely  to  make  men  of  this  opinion  as  '  Mister  Horn  and 
His  Friends.'  " — Christian  Miscellany. 

"  This  is  a  vigorous,  spicy  book,  and  has  a  sound  moral.  The 
blessedness  of  giving  is  forcibly  illustrated.  Its  humor  is  admi- 
rable. The  book  is  a  splendid  medicine  for  stingy  people,  and 
will  do  every  body  good." — Btiffalo  Christian  Advocate. 

"  This  is  so  curious  a  book  as  to  be  almost  puzzling.  It  is  writ- 
ten in  a  dry  and  quaint  style,  and  comes  from  the  pen  of  a  prac- 
ticed writer.  The  characters  are  well  and  clearly  drawn,  and 
their  good  and  bad  qualities  are  forcibly,  and  sometimes  humor- 
ously, described.  The  central  figure,  Mister  Horn,  is  something  of 
an  oddity  ;  but  the  reader  gets  to  enjoy  his  doings  pretty  well,  and 
to  appreciate  the  oddly  put  morals  of  the  story.  The  vignette  il- 
lustrations are  clever,  and  really  illustrate  the  book." — Sunday- 
School  Times. 


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